


Running Up That Hill

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fitzsimmons AU, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, reverse!verse, s2 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5270627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prepared to die for Simmons, Fitz confessed his love and gave her the oxygen canister, but with her broken arm, Simmons knew she was never going to make it to the surface. She gave her last breath back to him, and he pulled her out with it, but she was left with hypoxia - and he was left with a choice.</p>
<p>1x22/S2 AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pod

**Author's Note:**

> Quite a few parts/chapters, but pretty short, for your angst-hurt-comfort-on-the-go needs. I say parts because it's leans toward the collection-of-scenes kind of multichap than a thoroughly plotted one, because the overarching plot is familiar and I want to focus on what's different. It's got some very good comments on tumblr so I thought I would share it here. I hope you like it!
> 
> *Skye/Daisy is referred to as Skye because it's set (and mostly written) when she called herself Skye.

“Why – _why_ would you make me do this, you’re my best friend in the world!”

“Yeah, and you’re more than that, Jemma.”

He took a deep breath, and watched her face as it slowly sunk in. Her eyes widened, then creased, in shock, confusion, fear – not exactly the emotions he was going for, but then again, this was not exactly the confession he would have liked.

“And I couldn’t find the courage to tell you,” he continued, to fill the silence more than anything, but also to get it out, so that it was undeniable, so that she would _know._ They only had a few seconds left. “So please…let me show you.”

He looked back up, to a face he thought he had memorised years ago. Her cheeks were blotched with tears, her eyes shining and dark, her lips soft, but dropped in horror, unable to find the right words for whatever she wanted to say. When she breathed, it was sticky with tears, and Fitz wished he could have hugged them away, but they didn’t have time. Then she spoke, and he didn’t catch it, but he threw away his thoughts of timing and the universe for the moment. Nothing was more important than her words to him in that moment.

“What?” he barely mouthed it, afraid to hear them, though he had no idea if a confirmation or a rejection would be worse right now. He got neither.

“My arm,” she repeated. His heart sunk as she continued: “There’s no way I’d make it up – not pulling you too, and I’m not leaving you here. You’ll have to do it.”

He wanted to argue, oh how he would have loved to fight her on this, but he knew she was right and they didn’t have time to negotiate anyway. If they waited much longer, the charge would never ignite and this whole thing would be a waste, and they really would die down here. Both of them.

She put her hands on his, wrapping them tightly around the tiny canister that was to be their saving grace.

“But…” he mumbled, feeling how light it was as he looked at their hands. “But there’s only enough…”

“I won’t make it to the surface without you, Fitz. This is very noble and all, but there’s no point in the both of us drowning.”

She sniffed, to stop her voice breaking under the pressure. _No, don’t cry,_ he wanted to tell her, as he looked back into her shining, insistent eyes. God, she was beautiful, even when she was crying, and why had he never told her all this before?

“Jemma-“ he began, only to have her cut him off.

“There’s no time, Fitz. You can do it. I trust you.

She smiled, and Fitz found himself mimicking her. On a silent, invisible cue, he turned and slammed his fist on the button for all he was worth.

The boom was an echo that deafened him. He grabbed Simmons’ sleeve on her good arm, and dove below the waterline. She fought alongside him for a couple of feet, propelling them as best she could, but with no air in her system, she soon turned into a drifting deadweight. His lungs ached as badly as his heart, counting the feet as they passed, feeling the one extra breath in his lungs, the breath he had given to Simmons, determined it would not be her last. He couldn’t fail. He must not.

When at last he did break free of the water, it was heaven and hell all at once. The sun was already hot where it shone down on him. Waves drowned his suffocating lungs as he gasped for breath. Salt bit at his eyes, nose, mouth, and all the raw cuts that decorated his skin. Simmons drifted, still, beside him.

“HELP!” he shouted to the sky, though salt water and sun were all but blinding him, and his voice was so hoarse it was hardly going to carry. _“HELP!”_

Then, by some absolute miracle, he heard propellers. He felt a hand wrap around his, and pull him upwards.

“This is Director Fury,” a voice said. “Doctor Fitz, you’re safe now. We’re taking you to Coulson. Your questions will be answered after you and Simmons have received medical attention.”

“Simmons…” He moaned as more hands, attached to white coats, took her from him. The propellers were starting to cause a roaring headache – or at least, adding to the one that was making his head spin from the pressure changes. His nose was bleeding. Excellent. Was he even standing upright?

“Fitz.”

He felt hands on his shoulders, and then nothing.


	2. The Waiting Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any medical inaccuracies. I tried.

He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. It was heavy, and scratchy, a typical hospital issue, but at least it was warm and dry. He’d refused to change out of his clothes, not until he’d heard something, but he hadn’t seen so much as an orderly pass for the last half hour.

Or was it, five minutes?

He wrapped his fingers tighter around the mug of tea in his hands. It was still steaming - a little, anyway - so it couldn’t have been too long. Then again, it was his second. Or was it, his third? His stomach rumbled, but worry and salt water made him gag at the thought of food. He tucked himself tighter under the blanket, wishing that he could close his eyes, and he’d open them again to find that this was all some awful dream. He’d take it, even if it had been brought on by his anxiety about Ward’s betrayal. Even if it was the result of some sort of drug, and somebody was holding him captive right now. Even if it meant being back in that pod again.

“Doctor Fitz.”

Koenig had an irritating, nasally voice, and an even more irritating cheerful attitude. Fitz ground his teeth together as the suit approached.

“I’ve got your badge, and Director Fury instructed me to let you know the Bus is landing. You should go to meet them, I’m sure they’re anxious to see you.”

_If I go to meet them, does that mean getting away from you?_

Fitz bit his tongue. It was surely his worry, anger and frustration making him more volatile than usual. Jemma would remind him this was no time not to be civil. In times of crisis, she said, everyone was on edge, everyone was troubled, and it was best to focus on the group interest, to avoid getting lost in ones own difficulties. It was sunshine and optimism, but at the same time, self-sacrificing utilitarianism that seemed as much of her make-up as her blood or bones. It was at the core of so much he loved about her - so much that was laid out with her, pale and cold, in some room out of sight, with machines breathing it to life.

Fitz stood up, and dragged himself out of the room with the disdain he had once reserved for long days at his dull-as-a-brick high school. He could think of nothing but burying himself again as he watched the ramp open, and Coulson, May, Trip, each react to seeing him alone.

It wasn’t until he felt a pair of arms wrap around him, squeezing the life out of him, spilling lukewarm tea on them both, that he finally realised he was in fact, still breathing. He took in a huge gasp of air, and the heaviness and stiffness of his shoulders turned from stone to water, and nearly knocked him down. He leaned into Skye’s hug, pressing down the urge to sob. 

“Where’s Simmons?” Skye sniffed. “What happened? Is she okay?”

Fitz didn’t dare open his mouth. Skye noticed. Slowly, breathing heavily, she released her death grip and stepped back a little. 

“She’s okay, right?”

Fitz could feel the tears in his eyes. He waited for them to blur his vision again, but as he scanned the faces waiting on the ramp above him, the concern on each one was crystal clear.

“She’s…” The water filled his lungs, his throat, his eyes, he couldn’t breathe. “She’s…”

“She’s alive,” Koenig interrupted. Fitz bit back a shudder, and closed his eyes, but the others turned in surprise to the newcomer.

“Welcome to the Playground,” Koenig said. “Coulson’s passed, of course, and Doctor Fitz, but the rest of you will need to be tested again for your badges.”

Skye balled a fist, and Fitz could hear her teeth scrape together.

“But we’ll get to that later,” Koenig amended. “Doctor Simmons is in the best care SHIELD can buy, just awaiting assessment. Can I offer you tea or coffee while you wait?” 

– 

Fitz felt May’s eyes track him as he let the group pass and trailed slowly after them. He found them waiting, standing, grouped. He frowned. Coulson nudged the others aside, so that Fitz and his tea-stained hospital blanket could step to the front, to where a Latina woman, not much older than Simmons, was waiting.

“Doctor Fitz,” she said, reaching a hand forward for a moment to shake his, before realizing that he would have to drop the tea or the blanket, neither of which he seemed to realise he was still carrying. She retracted her hand, and addressed the group. “Doctor Fitz, Agents, I’m Doctor Pryor. I’m the head neurosurgeon assigned to Doctor Simmons. My colleague is with her as we speak. I’m afraid it’s not all good news. 

“Doctor Fitz warned us that the amount of oxygen they had versus the distance they had to swim made even her survival a near impossibility. I’m pleased to inform you that she is alive, and surprisingly well. She’s in a non-induced coma, on a ventilator, but her heart is fully functioning and her brain shows promising activity. “ 

“Promising?” Coulson pressed, skeptical. Fitz felt a chair press against the back of his legs. He sunk into it slowly as Doctor Pryor continued.

“Agent Simmons’ body is doing a remarkable job of managing the shock to her system, but she was without oxygen for a long time, and the damage to her temporal lobe is extensive.”

“What- what does that mean?” Skye swallowed hard.

“Brain damage is difficult to assess, even with a conscious patient,” Doctor Pryor explained, “but with most injuries like this, the memories remain intact, as the damage is predominantly to the left side, but speech and motor functions are usually impaired, sometimes severely.”

Doctor Pryor lowered her eyes for a moment, and Fitz looked up when he heard her breath catch. She met his eyes, reluctant and personal.

“I hope Agent Simmons has a secondary career in mind, Doctor Fitz,” she said quietly. “It’s not likely she’ll be able to perform surgery again.”

She blinked, and her chilling gaze disappeared as she turned and fled the way she had come. Fitz stared after her for a few seconds, before the weight of what he had just heard forced him to lower his head again. More lukewarm tea splashed onto the floor by his feet. He closed his eyes and let the frustration wash past as someone took the mug from his hands.


	3. The Next Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My precious brotp #1. (@ S3 canon can we get more Bus Kids/bro!Daisy please?)

“Dinner,” Koenig announced, waving the paper bags cheerfully at them. Like a shadow, or a cat, May flowed across the room in silence to help him distribute the orders. Skye slapped a hand over the quarter she’d been twirling, and reached half-heartedly for her beef black bean. As she popped it open, she couldn’t help but look over the lone box that remained on the bench, unclaimed.

“Anyone seen Fitz?” she wondered, looking around.

“Not since lunch,” Coulson said, a sigh audible in his voice. May kept her eyes cast down, fishing through her noodles with chopsticks. As good as a no.

“He’s still with Simmons.” Trip shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sit still for so long.” 

Skye stood up. She hooked her black bean over one finger, and grabbed Fitz’ mystery box from the counter with her other hand. Maneuvering the door open, she was grateful once again that the smell of food, particularly something as odorous as Chinese, was enough to crowd out the stench of sanitiser and bleach.

Fitz was huddled in a hospital chair at Simmons’ beside, hugging his knees tightly to himself, so that he could rest his chin on them. His eyes – still a little red and shiny – watched Simmons intently, only leaving their post to occasionally flicker over the screens and monitors that surrounded her. A tray made of lightweight cardboard rested on the bed sheets, by Simmons’ motionless hand - and Skye tried not to grimace at the tape holding the IV to her pale skin. On the tray was Fitz’ lunch, barely touched. Skye’s surprise flickered and died like a candle flame.

“Fitz.” She frowned, pitiful, at the sandwich.

Like a dog waiting for its owner’s return, Fitz’ eyes didn’t shift from Simmons for a moment.

Skye put both boxes of Chinese on the nearest flat surface – a small table by the door with a vase of flowers on it - and dragged a second seat from the back wall to Fitz’ side. She dropped herself into it, and reached across Fitz for the untouched half-sandwich. She took a grateful, hungry bite and groaned as seasoned chicken, avocado, and sun-dried tomatoes – albeit a little cold - rolled over her tongue. With a full mouth, she batted Fitz’ shoulder.

“C’mon, this is really good!“ 

Fitz shrugged, as much to shake her off as to respond.

“’m not hungry.”

Skye looked at the sandwich she was holding. She glanced over her shoulder at the awaiting Chinese.

“Not even for mi goreng?” 

Fitz didn’t respond. Skye sighed.

“Fitz-“  
  
She cut herself off, lost for words. What could she possibly say at a time like this?

What would Simmons have said?

The thought struck her like ice water, and she felt tears prickling her cheeks again. She sniffed, choking on the effort it took to controlling her breathing, and gently rested her free hand on Fitz’ nearest shoulder. He didn’t shrug it off this time; instead, he moved one of his own hands to cover hers.

–

It was midnight before either of them ate another bite.


	4. The Coma Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...the medical science in this is almost entirely TV-medical-science...sorry...

Fitz scanned the half-empty case, and pressed his lips together. He swallowed down another flash of rage at Ward and Garrett and Hydra, and gently settled the remaining Dwarves into their casings. 

“That was all we could find,” Coulson said, apologetically. “I’m sorry, Fitz.” 

“’S not a big…”

His eyes flitted to the side, where Simmons was still lying, as still and pale as the first day they’d come out of the water. His broken Dwarves weren’t as big of a problem, in that light. At the same time though, it hurt more than it might have in other circumstances, to think that somebody – Ward, presumably – had actively found and destroyed the other Dwarves. It made him angry, too, in a way that he couldn’t remember having experienced for several years before this whole mess. It made flames of anger, of indignant fury made raw and vicious by the pain. It turned all of his fruitless rage and guilt and grief over Simmons into fuel. If anyone crossed him in this very moment, he probably could have strangled them.

At least it was an emotion. He’d been lacking in those the last few days.

He looked up, and realised Coulson was still watching him. His free hand, resting beside the case, had curled into a fist. He carefully uncurled it. 

“Thanks for going back for them.”

_It’s the least I could do,_ Coulson said with a smile. He moved to stand up, and the monitors went wild. Lights flashed, alerts buzzed, and Simmons’ fingers gripped the sheets with an intensity born of terror and instinct.

“What’s happening?” Skye demanded, leaping out of her seat and to Simmons’ side. Her hands fretted, hesitant to touch, as Simmons’ back convulsed into a gruesome arch.

May paced a few steps back from the bed, a panther in an invisible cage, as the medical staff rushed in. Her fingers grabbed at the elbows of her jacket. Bile rose in her throat as the monitors calmed again. She could almost taste the morphine.

“This is good news,” Doctor Pryor informed them, smiling gently. “She’s waking up from the coma. Her body is rejecting the ventilator. We just increased her morphine a little so that we can remove it. She should be coming ‘round soon.” Her smile dropped away into a more sympathetic and solemn expression, and she added, “Give us some space, if you don’t mind, and prepare yourselves for when she wakes up. Aside from everything we don’t know yet, she’s probably going to be very disoriented. She’s going to need you.”

As the others all but herded Fitz from the room, his mind raced nowhere in particular, and his heart beat so fast he could feel his fingers tingle. He was glad for the distraction of the Dwarves, and took to examining the damage so that he wouldn’t count the seconds, wouldn’t think too hard about how Simmons had a tube down her throat to help her breathe, and how it was about to be pulled out, how it would scratch her insides and leave scars and cause her more pain, even more pain, after all this.

Fitz frowned intently at Sleepy’s underbelly, where wires lay exposed, his neatly crafted casing discarded.

(He could hear her gasping for breath. She was trying to speak.)

He returned Sleepy, and took out Bashful, whose legs were battered, one quite badly twisted. 

(Oh, Lord, he wanted to run to her. Sweep her up in his arms. Make her safe. Be the hero.)

He put Bashful back in, as best as he would fit, damaged as he was. His fingers hovered over Happy as he listened more intently to what Doctor Pryor was saying to Simmons. Before he could catch a clear word, though, he heard footsteps approaching the door. The latch clicked, and she called his name.

“Doctor Fitz,” Pryor said. “She’s asking for you.” 

He wasn’t surprised, but his body froze up at the thought of finally walking in there, finally seeing how she was, what had really happened. Stiffly, he put the Dwarves’ crate aside and stepped past Doctor Pryor, into the room he’d scarcely left for the last nine days. 

Simmons was sitting up in bed. Some of the colour had returned to her cheeks, but with her eyes and lips still discoloured, she looked a little too much like a fresh corpse for his liking. Too close to what might have been. The way she looked at him was off, too. She tilted her head as he approached, as if trying to recognise him, and terror slowed his heart until he had to stand still.  _It couldn’t be, they’d said it wouldn’t…_

“Jemma?” The floor seemed to disappear. Fitz resisted the urge to grab the chair to stop himself falling.

Slowly, she tilted her head back to straight. Her eyes pleaded with him,  _help me, tell me what’s going on._ Her lips parted and came together, searching, but only a wounded whimper found its way out of her throat.


	5. Pieces of a Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skimmons! And FitzSkye. (And seriously @S3 where's my bro!Daisy at?)

Simmons muttered a silent curse as the jelly toppled off the spoon and onto her sheets. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m not…angry. Food.” She clenched a fist around the spoon. “ _Hungry._ I am not _hungry_.”

“You haven’t eaten all day,” Skye reminded her. Simmons put her free hand to her throat.

“Hurts. In-inside.”

Skye sighed and put her hand over Simmons’ clenched fist, coaxing the spoon from her grasp. She put it and the jelly cup aside.

“Let’s go for a walk.” 

As ever, Simmons was grateful for the chance to get out of bed. Everyone’s insistence on her not exerting herself had left her bedridden for, so far, almost a week since she’d woken up, save daily walks with Trip or Skye, and occasionally, sitting somewhere else like the conference room.

“Can we go to – to, um,” 

Skye bit her lip. Jemma had been asking for days.

“To the lab?” 

“Yes!” her eyes lit up. “There?”

“It’s pretty busy in there,” Skye said apologetically.

“Why?” 

“We’re…moving.” 

Simmons tilted her head. “Moving? Why?”

“I guess Fitz thought it was a good idea.”

At Skye’s words, Simmons’ face sunk. Skye tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed, but she had to look away.

“Um. By the way.” Nonchalance put through a strainer. “Has he, uh, come to see you lately?” _What a remarkable yellow stain in the upper corner of the room. How long has that been there?_

“Spoon, please,” Simmons instructed, with a clipped tone that toed the line between determination and irritation.

Skye’s heart bloated with the agony of that simple gesture, handing the spoon and jelly back to Simmons. She bit her lip. Even after all this time, it was not her place to comment - though maybe it could be if she could figure out what had happened between these two. After Fitz had spent day and night beside Simmons’ comatose body, he hadn’t made it two days after she’d woken before burying himself in the lab. He blamed himself for what had happened, that much was obvious. He was reluctant to talk, probably because he didn’t want to hear others try to assure him that he was not to blame. Simmons, however, had given away nothing on the matter. Like Fitz, she refused to talk about it, but even in her silence she seemed so confused about the whole thing that all Skye could guess was that she remembered what had happened. Who she blamed, how she felt,  _what the hell_ had actually happened at all, Skye had no idea.

So she would make it her business to find out. 

–

For the first time since she’d seen Fitz standing alone in the hangar, Skye felt like the ground beneath her feet was solid again. She had a purpose. She had a mission. She strode through the corridors with her chin up, and without the desire to punch the next thing that pissed her off. She felt the breeze from her movement lift her hair, and smiled, feeling for a moment like her old, optimistic self.

“Hey, Fitz.”

She swung herself into the lab, and with a hop, skip and a jump, crossed the room to where Fitz was standing at a stainless steel table, unpacking glassware and marking off the inventory sheet. She saw his body tighten at her approach, but he took a moment of calculation before lifting his head. Seeing her cheerful face made him smile a little, and though his eyes were sad, she saw them sparkle. 

“Skye,” he said, trying not to sound as down as he looked. “How’s Simmons?” 

“She’s good,” Skye said. “I mean, she’s okay. She misses you.” 

He lowered his head again. Skye bit her lip, figuring another way to dance around the question. She leaned her back against Fitz’ bench. She could have chased his eyes from this angle, but she didn’t.

“Have you talked to her?” she asked. “Does she remember what happened down there?” 

“Yes. Memory’s on the right side, the damage is to the left,” he mumbled, turning a beaker to check for cracks. He put it down and marked it off on the inventory clipboard, and picked up another.

“I know Doctor Pryor said her memory wouldn’t be affected,” Skye pressed, “but y’know, she might be concussed or som-“

“She’s not concussed.”

He marked another beaker off. Skye’s fear, concern, irritation – not to mention the clash between this calm, unaffected Fitz and the desperate, self-destructive guardian who had watched the sleeping Simmons’ every breath – began to flicker into her voice.

“Then what happened down there? Why isn’t anyone talking about it?”

“Because it’s not _important._ ” Fitz slapped the clipboard onto the bench with considerably more gusto than necessary.

“Clearly it is!” Skye retorted. 

“It’s none of your business!”  
  
“ _She’s my friend!_ She’s upset! And so are you! Please, Fitz, I just want to help!”

His muscles were braced, but in restraint. His sharp eyes, more angry and bitter and defensive than she could ever remember them, looked her up and down.

“Please, Fitz,” she repeated quietly. “I want to help fix this.”

Fitz swallowed. He fidgeted, easing the tension out of muscles unaccustomed to confrontation. His eyes softened, and Skye let out a breath she had not realised she’d been holding. 

Then pain, sorrow and tears replaced the softness in his eyes, and he collapsed against the bench, resting where Skye had been moments earlier. He lowered his head, clenched his hands together, and drew a few shaking breaths. Skye crept closer.

“I’m in love with her,” Fitz confessed.


	6. A Rock and a Hard Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skye ponders her best friends' situations. Ft Mamma May + foreshadowing.

“I’m in love with her,” Fitz confessed.

“Wow. Shocker.”She’d meant it to come out as a sarcastic quip, to lighten the mood. Instead it came out slow and breathy, and she reached for the nearest lab chair to take the load off her boneless legs.

“Simmons - she hit her head when we fell,” Fitz explained to the empty space between them, his eyes distant. “After a while I was starting to think she might- she might not wake up. She did – obviously – but we were still stuck, and I’d tried, I’d tried everything I could think of and nothing was working. Then she had this idea and it was bloody _fantastic_ and all I could think was that I could get her out after all.”

Fitz smiled, bathing in that moment of relief even as it brought him back to the present. Hanging his head as the weight bore down on him again, he sniffed, and wiped his face with the end of his sleeve. Breathing slow, Skye tried not to pull a face as her stomach turned, the observations at her disposal already beginning to fall into place.

“Get  _her_ out?”she prompted hesitantly. When Fitz spoke, his voice was thick with tears and cracking under the weight of them.

“There was only enough oxygen for one of us. That’s when- That’s when it all came out. How I felt. What she meant. It was the only way I could get her to take it. Then she was going on about her arm and how she couldn’t pull me out, and she made me take it. She  _made_ me.” His lips, his cheeks, his whole face was trembling. “I couldn’t get her out in time. This is my fault.”

“No, no.” Skye shook her head. She could feel her own tears rising again, hot and angry like a stormy ocean. Swallowing them down, she wrapped her arms tightly around Fitz. “If this is anyone’s fault, it’s Ward’s, okay? You did nothing wrong. You probably saved her life.”

“She wouldn’t have needed saving if she’d left me there like I told her to.”

“She would never do that. You know that.” She forced it into him. Then, softer, repeated. “You know that, don’t you? She’d never leave you if there was any other choice.”

“Then why won’t she look at me?” 

To that, Skye had no answer. The first few seconds of silence were tense. Then Fitz curled himself into Skye’s embrace, and she shifted her hands on his back to hold him more gently until she felt him relax. He didn’t really want an answer – at least not now, and not from someone other than Simmons herself – but it felt like an eternity since there’d been solid ground beneath his feet.

–

In darkness, Skye stared at the roof, remembering a day when she would have given her left arm to see a flustered Fitzsimmons meeting under mistletoe. She’d give it now just to have them start talking to each other again. Or stand in the same room. It had been days since Fitz’s confession, and he’d said no more about it. At least now she had a little insight, but she was unsure how to broach the subject around Simmons, or even if she should.

Before her very eyes, it seemed, the sparkling, brilliant, confident biochemist had turned into a timid, easily frustrated ghost of herself, who cowered away from everyone but Skye. She couldn’t endanger that fragile shell of Simmons any further by pushing too hard. She wasn’t sure how she could approach the matter without taking sides.

“Hey Simmons, Fitz told me this totally personal thing that happened between the two of you. He’s in love with you and he’s worried you aren’t looking at him because you don’t feel the same way – do you? If not, why not? He’s totally a good guy. He was ready to die for you. Doesn’t that get him anything?”

Well, it makes him sound like a fedora-toting jerk of the punch-me-in-the-face-for-existing variety, which Skye was sure he was not. Yet taking Simmons’ side could be just as bad.

“Hey Simmons, Fitz told me this totally personal thing that happened between the two of you. He’s in love with you and he’s worried you aren’t looking at him because you don’t feel the same way. Sad, huh, I mean you two are just friends, right? Otherwise you totes would have done something earlier. You’re a girl who knows what she wants and gets it and you know Fitz worships the ground you walk on. Plus I mean, timing right? What’s he trying to do, make you feel guilty the rest of your life?” 

Of course, she wouldn’t have worded it like that, but that’s what it would have felt like. Wow. Who knew having two whole friends would be so difficult.

Part of her wanted to leave it up to them – after all, she barely knew a thing about them, relatively. Yet what had happened between Simmons and Fitz might just be at the core of Simmons rejecting everyone – after all, if she couldn’t even look at the person who had been closest to her for quite literally half her life, how could any of the others expect to earn a glance?

Not for the first time that night, Skye rolled over, plumped her pillow and lay her head down with a huffed sigh. Her mind was just running in circles. Fitz. Simmons. Fitzsimmons. What happened to Fitz and Simmons was so sad. Couldn’t the others see that they need serious help? No wonder so many agents died young, their trauma counseling sucked. She was going to have words with Coulson about that. She’s going to fight him if she has to. But this wasn’t Coulson’s fault, and he’s busy, he’s got Shield to rebuild, he’s got to fight Hydra. Hydra did this. Ward did this. Ward can go die in a hole. She’d put him there herself. And repeat.

A quiet knock at her door broke her out of her cycle. Grateful for the respite from climbing her own mental walls, Skye beckoned her visitor in and started pulling herself into a sitting position.

“Lie down.” 

It was May, and she didn’t turn on the light. Curious more than anything, Skye obeyed. 

“Okay. Lying. We gonna regress to my childhood or something?”

“No.”

This was getting weird, but Skye knew when to stop talking.

“I want you to picture a tree in your mind," May instructed. "Doesn’t matter what kind. Picture it clearly, as if you can bring it to life just by thinking about it. What kind of tree is it. What does it look like. What does it feel like. How to the branches twist? How do the leaves move against each other in the wind?” 

It was more words than Skye had ever heard May speak at once, she thought. But she did as instructed. She’d always thought bonsai trees were cool. She imagined a larger one, in a garden of pebbles, doubling back on itself with its branches reaching out like palms outstretched with their fingers upward, making an offering to the heavens. She stopped hearing May after a while – whether the other woman had stopped talking, or even left, Skye didn’t know. She was drawn into this tree project, fascinated by how it drew the other thoughts from her mind. Gratitude and relief flooded through her and she could feel the exhaustion surface and begin to seep out of her bones, lulling her to sleep.

But then she began to wonder if such a technique could help with Simmons’ frustrations, and the ground began to shake. The sky darkened and the earth split open and the tree crumbled into dust and blackness. Taking a deep, and slightly resentful breath, Skye started with the pebbles, and began building it again.

 

 


	7. And We're Not Speaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and I'm dying to know, is it killing you like it's killing me?)
> 
> I almost let you get away with some fluff this chapter. Pfft, this is me we're talking about!
> 
> Also, Trip! (and maybe a lil bit of Trip/Simmons)

There was a knock at the door – or more accurately, at the window by the door, since the door was almost permanently open. Simmons looked toward it, and saw Trip hanging himself off the doorframe, swinging himself into the room. She couldn’t help but smile.

“Hey, that’s more like it,” he said, smiling warmly. “You know, you are officially allowed to get out of bed.”

“I have.” Simmons gestured to herself, sitting cross-legged on top of her sheets, wearing actual clothes.

“Hey, you got a new cast!” Trip remarked, dancing up to the bedside and dumping himself in the nearby chair. He grabbed a marker off the bedside table - which was positively dripping with Simmons’ attempts to entertain herself; drawing implements, books, a collapsing deck of cards – and grabbed her arm. “Can I sign it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he scrawled  _Trip_ , and a flourishing love heart. He let her examine it, and watched her smile.

“Skye come in yet today?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Simmons tried not to sound upset. “I think it’s hard. She wants…I think…she wants….” Her forehead creased.

“She wants to..?” Trip prompted.

“Fitz! She wants to help Fitz. And me. And we, um. Two – us –“

“Both?”

She clenched her hands into fists, and felt the plaster press into her bad hand. She blamed the tears in her eyes on that pain. Trip did a very good job of not frowning too hard as he gently uncurled her fist, relieving the cutting plaster, and drew circles on that hand with his fingers until her shoulders, and eventually her other fist, relaxed too.

She lay back against the massive stack of pillows, which held her all but upright.

“I’m sorry. It’s…”

_It’s hard._ He didn’t finish for her this time. He just kept a hold of her hand. The silence they fell into was one in which no words were needed. Simmons let her eyes fall closed, felt her furrowed brow relax. She wondered if Trip was breathing in that pattern on purpose, but matched him anyway.

“You’re doing brilliantly,” he assured her, once she was calmer. “Seriously, you’ve been among the living for what, a week? It’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

Simmons snorted. “I only talk about….talking. Words. I have practice. The….problem…in my head…is I can’t find words. When I talk about something else, there’s more words I can’t find.”

“We can try talking about other stuff, if you want. Practice, right?”

“Don’t you – worry? They worry.”

“They worry you’re being too hard on yourself. They know how hard you push yourself, they respect that. They’re just looking out for you.”

“They don’t see me.”

“Being stuck in this room all day’s probably not doing wonders for that.” He said it with a laugh in his voice, so that she would know he wasn’t blaming her. She scoffed a short laugh, overcompensating a little as she wiped her eyes.

“Do you want to move to the kitchen or something? I could make us some tea?”

“Is Fitz..?”

“He’s in the lab with Skye.”

“Okay. Then tea. I mean yes.” This time, it was a genuine laugh.

–

But when they got to the kitchen, Fitz was there, standing by the kettle. Skye sat with her back to the hall that Trip and Simmons were in, somewhere. She’d just heard them stop.

At the counter, Fitz fought not to let his fingers drum the benchtop. The kettle had just finished boiling but he was waiting, hoping to make it look casual.

It was never going to look casual.

_“Trip-“_  A protest. Simmons’ reluctance to see him bit into his flesh. They murmured between them until eventually -  _“No, it’s okay.”_

She padded up the hallway and Fitz took his opportunity – almost sloshing the boiling water in his desperation – to pour two cups of tea. He picked them both up and turned just as she entered the room.

“Oh, hey, Jem- Sim- Jemma. I uh. Made you some. If you want?”

_Sorry, which one of us has the debilitating brain injury?_

He bit his lip as Simmons blanched. If Trip hadn’t been standing a comfortable distance behind her, obstructing the hallway, she quite possibly would have turned and bolted. Her eyes, almost fearful, fixated on the cups, on his hands, for a few seconds, and then looked long and hard, directly into his eyes.

Her fingers twisted in front of her chest. Her left hand shook, increasingly strong the longer he looked. She pinched the middle finger with her right hand, trying to bring it back under control enough that she could – and did – eventually reach out to take the mug of tea he offered her.

A furious red blush rose in her cheeks, from her lips to her ears. She hurried to take a seat beside Skye, flashing her a tight-lipped smile before hiding back between her hair and her tea.

“So…” Fitz began again. “I finished the stock take but we’re still moving some of the tech. Coulson was wondering if we needed a new spectrometer? I could fix the old one pretty easy but it sounded like he was offering to buy us something. What do you think?”

A long second passed. Then two.

“Um. I…um.” Simmons looked up at Fitz. His eyes were soft and round, and a little teary. He watched her carefully. Gently. As if he would stand there for the rest of the day if it took her that long. He probably would, too.

_Yeah, and you’re more than that, Jemma._

She looked down.

“Refill, Skye?” Trip asked pointedly, taking Skye’s still half-full juice from her so that she locked eyes with him, up close. In her eyes, he saw the same unsettling concern that he felt tightening his own chest.

When the moment passed, and Trip moved away, Skye snuck a glance at Fitz. He’d moved away from the kettle, further into the corner of the kitchenette. Trip gave him a supportive smile and he flashed a sore one back before settling against the corner bench and casting his eyes to Simmons.

Skye felt her gut twist. She’d never expected to see such a distant, haunted look on Fitz’ face. It aged him. She wondered what he was really seeing.


	8. The Journey of a Thousand Miles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Skimmons :) Beautiful brotp #2. (Or equal #1. Don't make me choose between my BusKidBrotps)

Skye picked up a handful of M&Ms, tossed a few into her mouth and caught them like a dolphin, and then rolled her eyes. Her gaze trailed around the room, which seemed to bleed the most mundane forms of entertainment she could think of.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not like…dying of boredom right now.”

Maybe just the mundane ones just stood out - but then again, this was Simmons she was talking about, who was picking at a saltine cracker while Skye was taking conscious effort not to scoff down an entire packet of M&Ms by herself.

Distracted, it took a moment for Skye to hear her own words. As soon as she did, she looked back at Simmons, and stammered an apology.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean literally dying- I just-“

Simmons laughed.

“I know what you meant. But I am – dying. Of boredom. Seriously. I’m going mental.”

She grinned, gesturing to her temple just in case Skye didn’t get the reference.

“Hey, Jemma,” Skye insisted. “You’re not crazy.”

“I am technically mentally ill, Skye. The differentiation is…”

The word disappeared and she bit her lip, digging in to funnel the frustration. She wasn’t sure she’d ever quite get used to this.

“Why don’t you go to the lab?” Skye asked. It was not the first time. Since running into Fitz in the kitchen, something deep in Simmons had shifted. She hadn't said a word about going to the lab - either lab - since then, and every time somebody else brought it up, her reaction was the same, always squirming away or changing the subject. Anticipating it, Skye chased Simmons eyes and caught her hands, creating an inescapable line of sight that drew their eyes together again.

“Well…I…I mean with the lights and…noise and….everything, I just thought it…it might be best if…”

Skye narrowed her eyes.

“You’re still a bad liar,” she deadpanned. Watching Simmons’ expression rapidly darken, Skye smiled and elbowed her playfully. Only half joking, though, she continued – “This is the girl who didn’t pass her field assessment, for god’s sake! Who jumped on a grenade! You’re telling me you’re afraid of a little light and some noise you’ve spent probably 90% of your life around?”

“It's not just that. The - the noise and the light.”

“It’s about Fitz, isn’t it?”

Skye didn’t mean to snap as hard as she did. The way Simmons shrunk away and closed up made her chest almost physically ache. But couldn’t Simmons see the way Fitz had been acting? Shaking, jumpy, he hardly slept; he barely even ate any more. Skye bit her lip and looked down. Of course Simmons wouldn’t know that, since the two of them had barely interacted since the Kitchen Incident. And if she did know, and was choosing not to act, there must be a reason and Skye might not deserve to know that reason.

_Hell yes I deserve to know,_  was the sentiment to which she always returned, but it was not a sentiment conducive to getting Simmons to open up.

At least, not usually.

Today, however, just as Skye was about to apologise and take her leave before she bit a chunk out of Simmons she couldn’t put back, Simmons spoke.

“It’s not just about him either.”

Quietly, slowly, keeping her eyes on Simmons’ face so that she would be able to tell the instant she was overstepping, Skye put her hand back over Simmons’.

“If I…If I go back,” Simmons explained. “If it’s not the same…”

She pulled her hand out from under Skye’s and let it shake in the space between them. Her tear-streaked, shining eyes met Skye’s, which held a softness so at odds with her moment of sharpness earlier that Simmons felt bizarrely safe. Like all of a sudden, in this moment, she was all Skye cared about. How could Skye do that? Throw away her anger so easily and just  _care?_

Skye gave a small, encouraging nod, and Simmons decided to venture ahead.

“I can’t work like this.”

Her breath was already starting to wheeze in and out of her chest. Her hand only shook more violently under the pressure. She let it shake, and focussed on controlling her breathing; her body was already giving enough away. “The things I have to do…I need my hands. I  _need_  them. I want to wait until they work, but they don’t.”

“But the physical therapy-“

“The…the phys…the therapy…it’s not precise enough. It’s not need- giving someone a needle. It’s not…one of those…what are they called? Small…knives…”

“Scalpels?”

Simmons ground her teeth together.

“I can’t even say it. How am I supposed to use it? I’m not in grade school, Skye. I don’t want somebody…watching over me to make sure I don’t…cut someone or destroy examples.”

“Evidence?”

The saltine cracker snapped in half. Skye winced.

“Sorry. But look, your brain has been physically damaged. You  _physically cannot_  control that hand any more than I physically can’t, I dunno, fly.”

Simmons still seemed very interested in the cracker. At least she had returned to eating it. Skye sighed.

“Jemma, you are  _brilliant_  and  _everyone_  in that room knows that. I guarantee you. You don’t have to start with something high-stakes. Maybe just, like, dissect a squid, or something. Do your own physical therapy.”

“I don’t know…it’s not like we need a lot of squid lying around, and the lab hasn’t got much to spare these days…”

“Are you kidding? Coulson’s literally waiting to throw resources at this. I’m pretty sure he will send a team of agents to actually _fish_  the squid right now if that’s what it takes.”

“Really?”

“Really. He’ll be happy just to do something. He really wants to help.”

The expression that took over Simmons’ face was not quite a blush. It was pride and gratitude at once – and with a spark of bewilderment in her glistening eyes. The sight left a strange taste in Skye’s mouth. She swallowed it down with the rest of the M&Ms she had in her hand, and asked -

“You used scalpels in middle school?”


	9. Bittersweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trip, and pain. Imagine what it must have been like for canon!Simmons to face this realisation? No, don't, it's too sad.

There was a knock at the door. Fitz blinked heavy eyes, looked over at the panel and then back to his reading. The words swum before his eyes.

“Fitz. Man.” Trip’s voice was only slightly muffled by the door. “You gotta eat something, come on.”

“I’m busy.”

“That never stopped you before.”

Complementing Trip’s point, Fitz’ stomach growled. He sighed, and heaved the book on his lap back to the pile from whence it had come. He answered the door, and was rather impressed by Trip’s ability to pretend like he didn’t notice the probably impressive bags Fitz was sporting under his eyes. Fitz wondered if they looked as heavy as they felt.

“Watcha doing in there?” Trip asked, leaning around Fitz a little so that he could see further inside Fitz’ room.

“Reading.” Fitz shrugged and gestured vaguely at the stack of books on his bed. “I thought, maybe, if I could learn some more about bio-chem, I might be able to help. Not much is sticking though.”

“That’s because, to learn things, you need food and sleep.” Trip’s tone was cajoling, teasing, but Fitz didn’t take the bait. He fixed Trip with tired eyes that had abandoned their usual blue for stone-grey, like the clouds on an overcast morning.

“Not the kind of sleep I’ve been getting.”

Suddenly the tension in his body was obvious. The way he carried his shoulders was not slumped, but closer to braced, like he’d been stabbed. His jaw was tight. His steps were small not just because he was tired, but because he couldn’t trust his legs not to fall out from underneath him.

“Come on, man. Let me make you some breakfast.”

Fitz' face and body wanted to object, but his stomach growled loudly, and under the circumstances, Trip decided to take that as an affirmative response. He put his arm around Fitz’ shoulders and Fitz staggered along in his grasp, to the kitchen.

Skye froze. Fitz froze. Simmons spun, and nearly dropped the packet of biscuits she’d just pulled out of the cupboard.

“Oh. Hi guys.” Skye gestured to the cupboard, stepping closer to Simmons in the hopes that her intervention would melt the ice before it cracked. “Simmons was feeling a little adventurous. Wanted to switch up the crackers.”

“Sure, sure,” Trip shrugged. He gave Simmons a loose, easy smile. “Wanna stay? I’m making pancakes.”

Simmons ignored him. She was too struck by Fitz. He’d never been a particular stickler for order, and he loved a sloppy cardigan morning and sleep, but she’d only ever seen him like this in the middle of exams…not even then. In the middle of their field assessment period, perhaps. She remembered how defensive Skye had been of him. Maybe this was why.

Fitz fidgeted under her gaze, and she realised she’d been staring. For something else to look at, she cast her eyes down to the gingernuts in her hands.

“How, um…how are you?”

Fitz felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips.

“I’m good.” He waited a beat, and pressed on – “I miss you. It gets lonely down there without you. You should come down some time.”

“I…was going to,” Simmons said. Though she wasn’t looking at him, there was a matching smile on her face. It was small, timid, still not quite like her, but closer. Fitz felt the bags under his eyes disappear instantly.

“That’s great!” Hope and joy and a need to seize the moment shook his bones. He didn’t see the way Simmons’ fingers wrung the biscuits’ packaging. “I did end up asking Coulson for a new Spec. It’s got ten slots and its own nitrogen freezer. You’ll love it. Plus we’ve got this paralytic toxin or something, the lab’s having trouble with it-“

“Um, Fitz, I-“

“- because it’s not inhaled or injected or ingested - ”

“I wanted to practice a little before - ”

“- and we can’t figure out a few of the isotopes -”

“…before I do anything –“

“We could really use your help on this one.”

“- Fitz!”

The packet tore open and biscuits rained down on the tiles. Fitz stopped babbling. Simmons was staring straight at him, wide-eyed.

“Right,” he added, nodding, his tone controlled. “Practice, of course, yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you or anything, I just…I’m sorry. Let me get those.”

He knelt down and picked up the biscuits that had fallen closest to him. Simmons was gathering those around herself, keeping her eyes down. The timid smile had disappeared. She bit her lip. He could hear her breath shaking.

“Maybe we should go,” Skye offered, as Simmons stood and put the handfuls of biscuit onto the island bench.

“No, please stay,” Fitz pleaded. “We don’t have to talk. I just want to see you. Just pancakes, Jemma. Please. You love pancakes.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She didn’t look at him, or at Skye. She just turned and fled, dabbing at her eyes. Skye gave Fitz an apologetic smile, took two teabags from the cupboard, gathered a few of the least broken gingernuts in her free hand, and trailed Simmons. Fitz smiled after her, glad that Simmons could have such a friend, though his heart ached that it couldn’t be him. He never had been good with change.

“Hey.” Trip pushed a plate of pancakes, drizzled in syrup and dotted with strawberries, across the bench. “Too much enthusiasm’s better than not enough. You’ll get there. You just gotta come at it from a new angle. Hard part is – sometimes that angle’s gotta be what’s good for her, which ain’t always good for you. In the short run, anyway. Gotta say, I don’t envy you, man.”

Trip brought across his own plate of pancakes and sat opposite Fitz, and under his self-appointed mentor’s watchful gaze, Fitz ate. He was glad for the strawberries to liven things up, and to hear Simmons’ voice in his head - the prim and proper, confident one from Before - reminding him that he hadn’t eaten a fruit or vegetable in quite some time. He chewed slowly, thinking. Thinking about Trip’s words. Thinking about lying on the floor of the ocean, with Simmons sleeping in his arms, with a radio bleeping out a useless signal to an empty surface, and nothing of use in the cupboards or on the floor around them. Thinking about that one canister of oxygen, resting by her elbow the whole time. It had always been hers. He had always been prepared to give that up – more than prepared. Willing. Even though he knew it would hurt him. It could have killed him. It hadn’t been hard, then, to do what was best for her. But then, it was life or death. Now, it was leaving or staying.

It was a fleeting thought, a conclusion drawn from exhausted, desperate, half-deluded daydreaming. But it stuck. Fitz swallowed hard. The maple syrup tasted like engine grease.

_Sometimes it’s gotta be what’s good for her._


	10. Evidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papa Coulson and shoving your feels off a cliff. *hugs you all*

Simmons took a deep breath.

She ran her hands down the fringes of her lab coat. Her SHIELD lab coat. Her ID was clipped to the pocket, designating her as Head of Biological Sciences. No doubt a degree of nepotism had been involved, but still. It wasn’t like she was underqualified.

_Except,_ intruded a thought. Simmons swallowed it down. Being nervous was unproductive. Nerves - at least in this case, where she had a long history of proven ability and success - only made matters worse. Her fear of failure was increasing her risk of failure: a paradox of biology that evolution apparently had not yet sorted out.

(Although perhaps a part of it was fear of seeing Fitz again. Of him seeing her. In which case, evolution had it right, short of social convention. Oh how she’d wanted to run.)

Another deep breath, and she reached forward, and pushed open the door.

Her first thought was that it was bigger than she’d been expecting. There were so many cabinets and benches she wondered where they’d found enough resources to fill them all. Then again, she and Fitz were not the only scientists in the department anymore, or else there’d have been no need to make her the head of anything. Perhaps they’d imported more than just brain power from elsewhere.

Most of the others, she couldn’t help noticing, kept their heads down. It was as if they had been specifically asked not to notice her. Simultaneously enormously grateful, and mildly offended, Simmons tried to focus instead on the big, shining new mass spectrometer that drew her eye. She gravitated toward it, but a voice called her attention before she could touch it.

“You could have warned me the preservative on these things could kill a man.”

It was Coulson, standing by the sink with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows and his hands buried a plastic tray full of squid. A shiny swipe across his forehead suggested that at some point, he’d rubbed the formalin across his face. Simmons snorted with laughter.

“I don’t notice.” She smiled, and came over to take the tray of squid from him.

“Lucky.”

Coulson followed her from the sink to her bench, and watched quietly and from a safely unobtrusive distance as she laid out the first squid on a metal tray and began a rudimentary analysis. (But she didn’t pick up a pen. She didn’t dare face handwriting yet.)

Eventually, Coulson’s eyes prickled the back of her neck enough to be distracting. Her first instinct was to tell him to leave, but she’d spent so much time alone, or only with Skye, that what came out instead was –

“Bring a clipboard over here, please.”

As Coulson moved to do so, Simmons felt her lips stretch into a wide smile. She bit her lip half-heartedly, but Coulson’s own smile encouraged her, and she let it go. She began dictating to him as if the squid was an unknown alien creature, requiring detailed documentation.

“Judging by the…vicinity of the eyes and head segment to the tentacles, the specimen appears to be of class cephalopoda. Phys- phylum, mollusca.”

Coulson dutifully took notes as Simmons separated out the tentacles and arms.

“Decap…Dec…Ten. It’s because there’s ten. There’s a word.”

“Decapodiform?” Coulson suggested. Simmons raised an eyebrow and he shrugged, gesturing to a Post-it note on the corner of the clipboard. “Fitz gave me some notes.”

She nodded.  But as she looked back down at the squid –  _the preservatives on this could kill a man!_  – it struck her that Fitz had probably never dissected anything in his life. Probably not even in high school. The smell alone would have near knocked him out.

“How did Fitz – how did Fitz know?”

“He’s been reading up.”

“Oh.”  _That’s sweet_. A fleeting smile touched her lips. She felt her heart lift. In a strange, sort of fluttery way. A way she hadn’t felt before. (Or had she?) Noting it to think on later, she got on with her work.

-

“This feels weird.”

“Yeah.”

Fitz sighed, and reached forward to turn off the screen. He’d seen all he needed anyway. Putting himself through any more was just masochism. He crossed his arms over his stomach, which was still twisting and pulling like he’d eaten something bad. Lack of sleep, apparently, could do that. But so could the thought of leaving Simmons. Whatever she was. Everything she was.

“Watcha thinking, Ed?” Skye bumped him gently with her elbow.

“What?”

“Ed…talking horse…long face…never mind. What’s up? You don’t look hugely happy that Simmons is making progress.”

“I am. Happy. It’s just…it means I’m right about something I didn’t want to be right about.”

“That…Simmons’ love affair with foul-smelling preserved dead things and parts thereof will continue into the indeterminable future?”

He stared at the black screen, his expression dark.

“I’m really sorry,” Skye repeated. “I have a lot of defensive humour built up and…honestly Fitz, you’re kinda scaring me. You haven’t been talking to anyone lately. Trip, having to drag you out to eat? And now this? The Fitz I knew would have been over the moon to see Simmons getting better.”

“And I feel _bloody awful_ that I don’t feel like that, okay?!”

His feet fell heavy to the floor and he hauled himself up from the chair and stalked across the room, away from Skye.

“Can’t you see it?” he demanded. “She’s better around you. Around Trip. Around Coulson."

“You don’t know that! ‘Better?’ What are you measuring that against?”

“Against  _her!_ She talks better with you. She smiles more with you. Her hands shake less – hell they were hardly shaking at all in the lab just now! Then I come in and she’s getting lost every other word and shaking so much she breaks things and I can’t even  _look_  at her without…The only times she gets worse is with me. Ergo, the thing that makes her worse, is me.”

“Correlation does not imply causality," Skye parroted, but the humour was lost in Fitz' anguish.

“Well I’m out of other ideas!”

“So, what, you’re going to schedule the rest of your life around not seeing her? You going to go work in the garage or something?”

His eyes remained fixed on hers. The realisation took a moment to set in.

“...You’re leaving?”


	11. Brother

“You’re leaving?”

Hearing it out loud – and in Skye’s voice, the plea from one lonely child to another inevitably creeping in - Fitz sighed.

“I have to do what’s best for her. I want to be over the moon that she’s getting better. One day I will be. Today I’m going to be selfish, if that’s okay with you." 

He sighed again, trying to steady himself or play it off or both.

“Fitz, come on, it’s only been a few weeks. There’s gotta be some rule in scientific method, or _something._ Or just life! You’ve known her ten years. You were Fitzsimmons! Don’t let one month bring this down.”

“It’s already down, Skye. There’s no point flogging a dead horse.”

“Have you talked to Simmons about this?”

“No, I still have to talk to Coulson. I was hoping…”

“I don’t think he’ll be on board, you know.”

“Then I’ll quit.”

“Quit? After all this?”

“There is no ‘all this.’ She _was_ all this. She’s the reason I’m even here in the first place.”

“As opposed to what, dead or Hydra back at the Academy?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“I don’t think you mean any of this!”

“I wish I didn’t!”

“What are you going to tell her? Seriously, Fitz, her self-esteem is way low right now, and if you’re the one who breaks it, I will cause you extreme pain, I promise.”

“I haven’t worked out any of that yet. Like I said, I was hoping it wouldn’t end up this way. I didn’t want to be right.”

“Didn’t you?”

_"Excuse me?”_

“Are you sure you’re not just running away? It’s gotta hurt to see her like this, it really does, I get it, but don’t you _dare_ leave her just because you are _hurt_ or _scared_ or it’s _too damn hard.”_

“You think I would-?”

“No! I don’t! At least, I don’t want to! But it certainly looks like it from here! And if you can’t explain it to me, you sure as hell can’t explain it to her.”

“Then maybe I’ll lie.”

“Okay, _that_ is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard! The last thing Simmons needs right now is another person to lie to her!”

“No, the last thing Simmons needs right now is to have to be around someone who represents everything in her life that’s gone wrong. Trust me, Skye, I’ve thought about this. A lot. If you think this is anywhere on the list of things I ever wanted to do, you really don’t know me at all.”

Skye sighed.

“I know. I’m sorry. I know you don’t need me against you right now. And if this is really what you wan- I mean…if this is really what you think would be best…there’s really no-one in a better place to judge that right now except Simmons, and she’s being very quiet on the whole thing. I guess I’ll just have to be here for her when you leave and- God. I kinda hate you a bit right now.”

“Please do.”

“Are you gonna be okay? Where are you going to go?”

“Well assuming Coulson doesn’t make me quit…I have an idea.”

Skye’s heart sunk.

“When SHIELD fell, we went to the Hub to rescue Simmons, and Garrett was there.”

“Oh my God.”

“And he…made me an offer.”

“Fitz. Stop.”

Fitz shrugged. “I have skills. If Hydra wants me, they can have me.”

“What, _NO!_ FITZ! Do you hear yourself?!”

“Undercover!” Fitz protested. “Undercover, of course. Jesus, Skye.”

But her death grip was already around his shoulders. Her face was pressed against his chest. And he knew that wasn’t what it was about.


	12. Poker Face

“So, Doctor Fitz, what brings you here today?”

He swallowed the bile in his throat.

“One of your officers offered me a position and I thought I would take him up on it.”

“And that officer was John Garrett, correct? Now deceased, at the hands of your team, I believe.”

A photograph slid across the table towards him. Fitz grimaced, but his fist clenched at the sight of Garrett’s sickly pale flesh. Even dead, he made Fitz' blood boil.

“Bang. Dead.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Your credentials are sketchy enough, Fitz. That amount of anger? They’re not going to let you in – and they don’t let people out.”

Fitz sighed as Coulson pulled the photograph back across the table.

“I get that you’re angry, I do,” Coulson assured him. “Don’t worry, I kinda want to punch the guy myself. Sometimes I think I’d dig him up, just to shoot him again. But you  _cannot. Do that._  You can’t give them  _anything_ , do you understand?”

“Yes. I do. I do. I just.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t going to do any good to restate how angry he was. In fact, it might only make matters worse. “It doesn’t help that I really don’t like dead things.”

“Use that then. Be disgusted. You’re a computer guy, it’s perfectly reasonable you don’t like blood and guts. At this point it would be better that you vomit, if necessary, than let on how much you hate Garrett. You have to make them think that you were actually contemplating his offer beforehand.”

“But- you know that stuff I said – that was true. I really wouldn’t desert SHIELD.”

“I know. I know that. Use that loyalty, Fitz. _Feel_ that loyalty, know that you have it, and then you can act as disloyal as they want you to and you won’t lose your way. It’s difficult, but I believe you can do it. I honestly do.”

“Okay.” Fitz ran his hands over his face.

“Take a break. Get something to eat. Build something. I’ll see you back at two and we’ll go again. And Fitz – in all honesty, try to keep your kneecaps, please.”

-

Trip peered around the punching bag, and frowned.

“So why the sudden interest in combat training?”

Fitz shrugged.

“It’s not ‘sudden’, I just never had the time before. Or the inclination…Or the need.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Okay, so it’s sudden. What’s it to you? Everything’s sudden these days. I just want to punch things without being asked questions, okay? Maybe I should have gone to May.”

“Nah, it’s alright, I get it. I’ll keep my mouth shut. ‘Long as you eat, man.”

“Sure.”

Fitz huffed and flexed his shoulders, and tried to tell himself it was the strange, airy feeling of wearing a tank top that was bothering him, and not the way Trip side-eyed him.

“Keep your thumbs out of your fists,” Trip advised, “or you’re going to break bones.”

-

“Where did Fitz get that bruise?” Simmons asked, watching him assemble a large sandwich.

“What bruise?”  _Which bruise_ , would have been a more meaningful question. Skye’s fist tightened around the handle of her mug as she very casually raised it to her lips. Fitz was all but hobbling around the kitchen, and though he didn’t have a black eye, his face was that of a very sore lab technician training for the first time. Plus, his hands look like he’d been in a knock-down, drag-out.

“Someone bandaged him up,” Simmons noted, with more than a hint of bitterness shading her tone. Skye ordinarily would have run with that, but today it just made her stomach turn.

“Their finishing technique is sloppy,” Simmons added, and Skye had to smile a little. At least the attitude was coming back.

“Maybe he’s been working with May,” Skye put in eventually. “She never used to let me go til I’d busted a few blood vessels.”

“He always did want to learn kung fu.”

Now, there was something interesting.

“Is that a hint of wistfulness I hear before me, Doctor Simmons?”

“What? Oh. No. No.”

Putting on the hautiest accent Skye could muster, she teased:

“I should say it wasn’t. Hardly the way for a proper young woman to behave.”

Simmons only blushed deeper and hid her face. Skye wished Fitz could have met her eye on his way out. But at least he was eating.

-

He made it past the picture of Garrett this time, and had it resting upside down in front of him, under pointedly casual, if slightly nervous hands.

“And your ICER pistols,” Hydra-Coulson posited, “they can fire any liquid or serum, correct?”

“Well, the delivery system would have to be adapted depending on the liquid, like if it were especially corrosive or something, but yes it could be done.”

“And you’re willing to do that? Convert an intentionally non-lethal weapon into anything Hydra needs it to be?”

“Hundreds of Hydra agents already have access to the weapons to retrofit, if not the designs themselves. Whatever Hydra wants to do with them can already be done. I might as well get the credit, right?”

“Mm-hm. And what would your partner say about this?”

His first thought, after the feeling of taking a bucket of ice to the face had passed, was that he should have seen it coming. Fitz forced himself to keep his eyes off Coulson as a twisted combination of fear for his life, and that gut-wrenching terror of failure from his field assessment days, roiled in the pit of his stomach. Any second now, Coulson would surely break his role and declare  _bang, dead_. But not this second. Or the next.

“My-my what?” Fitz stammered at last.

“You had a partner, at SHIELD, correct? Doctor…Jemma Simmons.”

Hydra-Coulson pushed another photograph across the table. Fitz and Simmons, at the SHIELD Academy, giving their speech. Just before Donnie Gill…

“Ten years,” Hydra-Coulson continued. “That’s impressive. I don’t imagine she took you leaving well.”

Fitz swallowed hard. His fingers ran along the edge of the photo of Garrett. He could give himself away, or force himself to vomit. He could beg Coulson to stop. Or he could soldier up and get through this.  _Hydra isn’t going to stop._

An open flip-phone followed the photograph across the table.

“Our offer is open to her too,” Hydra-Coulson invited. “Call her right now, if you like.”

Fitz swallowed hard. Drawing deep, he steeled himself, and looked up, to stare Coulson in the eyes. He flipped the phone closed, and pushed it back.

“Doctor Simmons is dead.” His voice barely shook. “That’s why I left SHIELD.”

After a beat of surprise, Hydra-Coulson shrugged and took the phone back, and tucked it into his pocket.

“Then I guess she won’t mind not getting the credit. Welcome to Hydra, Doctor Fitz.”


	13. Such Sweet Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> initially titled, The Hardest 180 of My Life. I am not nor will I ever be over Tiva. This one's for you.

“The new, darker, edgier Fitz,” Skye announced. “Now with scruff and bonus brooding atmosphere.”

“I’m not brooding.” He scowled.

“There it is.” Skye gave him a wry smile and tweaked his collar again. “You still look weird without a tie but I guess it’ll do.”

Fitz put his hand over his open collar and looked himself up and down in the mirror. He reached for the blazer hanging over the chair behind him, and Skye handed it to him, making eye contact in the mirror.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked, for what he was sure was at least the fourth time today.

“I have to do something.” He wearily repeated as he pulled the blazer on. “Doing  _this_  means I stay out of Jemma’s hair, and do something useful with my time. Win-win.”

“Yeah, sure,” Skye muttered. “Until you blow your cover like an idiot and we find you hanging from some lamp post somewhere with the Hydra logo carved into your chest.”

“I really needed those nightmares. Thanks.”

“Yeah well I’m going to be having them so you’re welcome. And so help me, if I have to explain to Simmons-“

“Simmons won’t know where I’m going,” Fitz interrupted. “She thinks I’m going to see Mum.”

“And your mother thinks you are..?”

“Dead, probably? I haven’t talked to her since before SHIELD fell.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Skye sighed, and Fitz took one final look in the mirror, before trailing her out of the room and turning the light off behind him.

-

Simmons had heard the murmurings about it for a few days now. She’d never quite believed it was really going to happen – even as she intentionally had to avoid Fitz, and ignore everyone he’d asked to chase her up, this morning.

_1…2…3…_

She counted the breath into her lungs, trying not to rock from one foot to another, trying to pretend she believed the rumours, that he was only leaving for a few days. The atmosphere was far too heavy for that: the way everyone looked at each other, the persistently loaded silence, was too solemn. They were keeping something from her.

_4…3…2-_

Her breath caught and her eyes grew wide as Fitz walked into the hangar. His collar was open, his steps heavy, and the duffel bag he wore slung over one shoulder seemed to weigh him down far more than its contents alone should have, by the look of it.

“Hey…” he greeted. A gentle smile flickered across his face, hesitant, and soft eyes searched hers out, as if perhaps he wanted to reach for her, and didn’t dare.

“Hey.” She nodded, uncertain she wanted to keep eye contact. Eventually, she ducked her head away. Fitz dropped his gaze.

“I’ll, uh. I’ll ask my mum to check in with your folks. Do you want me to tell them what happened?”

Simmons shrugged. “I guess now’s a good … as good …” She shook her head and began again: “Yeah. Okay, fine. Tell them, if you want. I guess somebody has to eventually.”

“I’ll tell them you said hello, too, though.” Fitz tried to smile.

“Oh. Yeah of course.”

“And that you love them.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Wheels up in two minutes,” May warned quietly.

Fitz gave up on smiling. He cleared his throat, then hitched his bag higher onto his shoulder and gripped the strap with slowly whitening knuckles.

“I’ll see you soon, alright?” he promised. “I’ll bring back something nice. Darjeeling, maybe. The proper stuff.”

Jemma just nodded.

Fitz looked from Simmons, to Skye behind her, and then back one last time at his partner – or perhaps, former partner. The curve of her face, the fall of her hair, it was so familiar it was almost like he was imagining it, all of it, except the look in her eyes. There was suspicion. Doubt. Pain and anger, drowned in sorrow. Put there not by Ward or by chance this time, but by him.

“I’ll see you soon,” Fitz repeated softly. Then he turned and trudged up the ramp, and tried to wash that look in her eyes from his memory.

-

Once the jet was out of sight, Simmons turned and strode back toward the lab.

“Darjeeling, huh?” Skye was on her heels. “That sounds nice.”

“Darjeeling’s in India,” Simmons replied crisply, throwing the lab door open with a little more force than was necessary, and burying her nose in the nearest clipboard. “You can get it in Glasgow or London or Boston equally well.”

“Yeah, but I mean, England’s the Tea Place, right? They probably know what they’re talking about. Plus there was that whole colonisation…thing…”

Simmons dumped a tray of recently sterilised miscellaneous objects onto the bench and began swiftly, precisely, and aggressively sorting them. Skye watched for few seconds, until the aggression either dissipated, or concentrated, into cold, calculated control.

“Don’t you have something to punch?” Simmons shot coolly.

“Are you okay?” Skye asked. A stupid question, but a place to start. At least it got Simmons to look up.

“You know it’s okay to be upset about this, right?” Skye continued. “You’ve been through a lot and, well, honestly, I’d have thought you’d have cried at least once by now. I won’t judge. I won’t even tell anyone.”

“I’m not upset, at this present moment,” Simmons explained, though the scalpel she edged into line with military precision may have suggested differently.

“Angry?” Skye suggested. “I could teach you how to fire a gun. It’s super satisfying, I promise.”

“I’m fine, Skye.”

“Well, Fitz isn’t, and if I know you two-“

“Did you ever think that maybe you  _don’t?_ ”

The tray rattled, and the meticulously aligned tools shook out of place.

“Hey, come on, that’s not fair,” Skye retorted.

“You’ve only known us a- a year-” Simmons stammered, her arms and shoulders so tense she was shaking as Skye’s gestures became bigger, drawing the attention of others in the room.

“Yeah!” Skye spread her arms wide. “And in that time our collective near-death toll’s somewhere in the double digits! I think that counts for something, don’t you? Plus, while I may not be a scientist, I do have eyes. And ears. He’s miserable! And he loves you! And I mean like, every kind of love. He told me what happened. I didn’t want to bring it up but both of you mean a lot to me and I hate to see you fighting like this!”

A single, quiet sob knocked the energy out of Skye.

Simmons stared at the tray, focusing on her breathing as her shaking hands gradually fell calm. Skye shrunk back to her usual size, and shot a glare at the eyes that had strayed from their ordered disinterest in Coulson’s team. She rounded the bench more softly, and gently stepped close enough to Simmons to hug her, or to whisper in her ear. Or to see the tears starting to spill over her cheeks.


	14. A Sheep in Wolves' Clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turgeon-equivalent OFC ahead. Now we're entering official S2 territory.

The hallways were white. Almost creepily so. Fitz was beginning to wish he hadn’t had that horror movie phase a while back. Anything as white as these walls would inevitably have blood spattered across it at some point. (How many times had these walls been cleaned? How many tiny flaws in colour were from something more sinister than an imperfect paint job?)

Fitz hitched his bag higher on his shoulder and tried to focus on something else. He looked down, at the shoes of the man leading him. The floor was still carpet. Odd. If they were headed to a lab it would probably be tiles or linoleum by now. How big was this place?

“Just in here, Mr Fitz.” The man pushed open the door, stepped inside, and held it for him.

“It’s Doctor, actually,” Fitz corrected, distracted. This was very much not a lab. This was an office building. This was a sea of desks – some partitioned, most just paired up against each other. Dozens of people, mostly young, were tapping at keyboards and answering phones in a steady rumble of sound.

_“…now go to Settings – no, Settings, it’s in the top left…”_

_“…There should be a check-box, is it set to public or private?”_

_“…If you could give me your password, I can fix that right up from here…”_

“Uh.” 

Fitz was not sure how to put this. There were a lot worse places he could have been led. But at the same time, he had to say something. He turned to the man who had led him here, taking pains once again not to squirm under the sharp eyes and the bizarre smile that made Fitz feel like the man was going to either eat him or flirt with him at any given moment.

“I’m sorry, Mr- Mr, uh,”

“Bakshi.”

“Mr Bakshi. I’m sorry, I think there’s been some sort of mistake. I’m supposed to be in Systems Engineering?” 

With a tone verbally equivalent to a shrug, Bakshi explained,

“We didn’t have any openings…but if you really are a Doctor, then I suppose you’ll get there on your own soon enough.”

 _If I really am?_ Fitz ground his teeth together. It wouldn’t do well to get off on the wrong foot on day one. Besides, if he was ever hiring former Hydra – if he ever decided to, despite the hopefully swift punch in the face Skye would give him upon voicing the thought - there’s no way he would let them into Systems Engineering off the bat. They probably wanted to keep an eye on him. Excellent.

Fitz forced a smile onto his face. 

“I suppose I will.” 

They could both tell he was faking it, but hopefully, he was passing it off as nothing more than a disgruntled, underappreciated employee. Bakshi’s eyes tightened slightly in scrutiny, so Fitz huffed for an excuse to turn his face away.

“Alright, so which one’s mine, then?”

Bakshi led him to a nearby desk, cluttered with what Fitz could only assume were the belongings of its previous owner. Trying to shake the feeling that he was settling into a dead man’s chair, Fitz tried not to pull a face as the person at the other desk stuck their head over to take a look at him. She was younger than him - early twenties, probably. She had long, straight, dirty-blonde hair in a ponytail, and bright, strangely translucent aquamarine eyes. And a really big smile. Not exactly the face of Hydra. Or maybe just a really, really disturbing one. 

“Marlene,” she greeted, offering a hand for him to shake. 

“…Fitz.” 

Bakshi cleared his throat. Marlene ducked back behind her computer, and Fitz turned and looked up at Bakshi.

“Anything else, sir?” It took concerted effort not to speak through gritted teeth.

Bakshi dropped folded black material onto the desk in front of him.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

With that, Bakshi turned on his heels and strode away. Fitz picked up the material and let it unfold in his hands. It was a black polo shirt - a uniform - with a white, embroidered octopus almost grinning at him from just above the left breast pocket.

“Hey, Marlene –“

She sprung over the top again. “Yeah?”

“Where-“ 

“Oh, hold on, I have to take this – _This is I.T., hail Hydra, how can I help you today?”_

His stomach flipped. He stood up suddenly. Marlene frowned up at him and he cursed under his breath. Subtle. But he could save it.

 _Where’s the bathroom?_ Fitz scribbled on a piece of paper, and held it up to her. Marlene gestured over his shoulder, back the way he and Bakshi had come, and he noticed a side passage labeled with the traditional pictograms. He gave Marlene the thumbs up, and she grinned and flashed them back. He grabbed the polo shirt and all but ran inside, flinging the cubicle door shut behind him. 

_I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this._

- 

“I CAN DO IT MYSELF!”

The words had been building up inside her for a while. At least they came out whole, furious, and forceful enough to cover the clattering sounds as she snatched the tray off the orderly with violently shaking hands. She took a deep breath, steadying her tone as the shockwaves radiated out.

“Thank you,” she said, so crisply it was bitter. “But I can- I can do it myself.” 

The orderly nodded, and scuttled off. Simmons bit her lip and tried to tell herself it wasn’t her fault; that this wasn’t like her, and that if she kept on like this, she'd soon enough she’d scare away anyone who even _wanted_ to help her, let alone could. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, though. Every time somebody carried something for her, or asked if she was okay, it made her clench her gut. It was getting so frustrating, she almost felt like punching a wall just to prove she could. Since cold-shouldering them wasn’t working, maybe screaming at them was in fact, a good idea. There was more than one way to skin a cat. But still, she wished she could do it more gently, so they wouldn’t think that either she was crazy, or they were stupid.

Not for the first time, she wished Fitz was around. He’d always understood when she got in these moods, he understood when to push her, when to leave her be, and when to just be there and be silent. Skye hadn’t been too bad at it either, but she was busy now. Busy with training, and with some secret business in the vault that nobody would tell Simmons about. She’d heard whispers – mysterious sources – undercover – recruiting. A theory was quietly building from the fragments of information in her mind. Some of it was muddled, she couldn’t trust it, but she was hearing repetition and support, backing up the way her mind was starting to think. Even so, she dared not assume it was the case, so she kept it to herself. People were worried enough without her letting on how worried she was. Let them believe they were playing her. Let them leave her be.

Let them leave her alone.

Apparently, they were all better off that way.


	15. Hallucinations of Unusual Size

Being alone was boring. 

Really, really, so awfully boring it was as if it opened a hole in her chest and every emotion she could have felt about literally anything was sucked into it, as easily as water down a sink, like she couldn’t stop it even if she wanted to. It was even worse, probably, because everyone else was still physically around. In fact, the more she tried to drive them away, the more attention they seemed to pay to her. It was more distant now, of course, but still there, still prickling on the back of her neck. They whispered about how erratic she was being; about how maybe it was the brain injury, or PTSD, making her act out. 

Simmons had never been a supporter of self-diagnosis in fields outside one’s expertise, but after a while, even she had been tempted to pick up a book or two. Perhaps it was all the medical procedure she’d been shoehorned into learning, easing her down the slippery slope of generalisation. She’d only stopped herself when she’d realised that calling a real psychologist or psychiatrist would probably be more effective, and subsequently realised that she didn’t know who that was, or even if there was anyone, because she still had not even properly looked at the catalogue of her staff.

“Excellent,” she hissed, pacing around her bedroom. “You finally get control of a department and this is what you do with it.”

“Oh come on, you know you wouldn’t talk to them anyway.” 

She froze. 

“You hate talking to people about your problems. Especially random people. Especially psychologists.” 

He was sitting on her bed. Casual as anything. He screwed up his face and mimicked her.

“’Oh Fitz, they think they’re _so_ smart, with their capital-A-anxiety and their capital-D-depression. Observations, is what they’re making. I can’t believe it’s a real subject.’”

Simmons scowled.

“Oh come on, you know I got over that,” she retorted. “It takes one semester of psych to realise it’s more complicated than that.”

“One semester and one medicated best friend.”

“What- well- I mean, yeah. But I was taking the semester anyway.”

“You were taking it to prove me wrong.” 

“Of course I was.”

“You paid for my meds once, remember?”

“I can’t _believe_ you only let me pay for them once. It’s hardly your fault the prices of medication in America are ridiculous.” 

“So you were paying for them in protest against American capitalism? That’s noble of you.” 

“How would paying into the system be protesting it? Protesting would have been getting them sent over from England or Canada or somewhere with a sane medical finance program.” 

“You would have tried that and you know it.”

“Yeah. Pretty sure I would have paid for them forever if you hadn’t stopped me. I felt bloody awful, you know. Yelling at you about it. I must have been such a pain.”

“Am I the kind of person who hangs around people I don’t like?” 

“That’s not fair. You like everyone. You just don’t like having conversations with them.” 

“That’s what I have you for.” 

“Oh you ‘have me’ now, do you?” Simmons rolled her eyes. 

“I don’t know. Do I?” 

Simmons turned back to him and frowned. Her Fitz would probably have become uncomfortable at her retort, and started backtracking, insisting that of course not, that’s not what he meant, she was her own person and he was just joking. Perhaps not in so many words, but to that effect. This Fitz sat contentedly on her bed, watching her calmly. Confidently.

“Who-“ she began. “What…are you?”

“I’m Fitz.” 

“No you’re not.” 

“I’m not _real_ Fitz. Of course not. He’s not here. But I’m still sort-of Fitz. I’m the Fitz in your head.”

“So you’re…the Fitz I want Fitz to be?”

“Maybe.”

“What? That’s not helpful.”

Fitz shrugged.

“There’s nothing I can do about that. I’m in your head. If you don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Why are you here then?”

“Because sometimes you know things, and won’t admit it.”

She scoffed. 

“Like what?”

“Like that you shouldn’t be alone.”

She crossed her arms and bit her lip. The pain of everybody else’s concern, and of shoving it back in their faces, swelled up in her chest. The pain of breaking down in front of Skye; of crying in her arms, incoherent and confused. The pain of watching him leave, and knowing that, for some reason, he was lying to her. She bit back tears.

“It’s your fault.”

“Why?”

“You left.”

“I didn’t leave.”

She sucked in a breath, and ran her hands down her face.

“You know. What I mean.” 

“You mean _he_ left.”

“Fitz left. Fitz is you. You are Fitz. Q-E-D, _you_ left.”

“We’ve been through this. I’m not Fitz. Perhaps it would be easier if you called me Leo.”

Simmons screwed up her face.

“Fitz doesn’t say ‘perhaps.’ And he hates being called Leo.” 

“Exactly. Then you won’t get us mixed up.” 

“This is stupid. Why would I get you mixed up? He’s not _here.”_

“You just said I was him.”

“Because you are.” She caught herself and rolled her eyes. She’d just proven him right. And of course, there he was with a shit-eating grin on his face, because he knew it. A smile touched her lips as she wiped at her eyes. “Ugh, you’re infuriating.”

“But you feel less lonely now, right?”

“I do.” She let out a shaking breath. 

“Good. I’ll stick around, then.” Fitz – Leo – seemed to notice where he was sitting a moment after he spoke, and sprang up, clearing the way for her to get to bed.

“I, uh. I have to change first.”

“Okay.” 

She shook her head. Apparently Leo’s approach to nudity was very much Simmons, not Fitz. 

“I mean, you should go,” she insisted. “I’ll see you at breakfast. And – Leo – would you mind acting just a _bit_ more like Fitz? I miss _him,_ not…not you. As lovely as you are.” 

“Of course, Jemma.” A slight blush appeared in his cheeks, like she imagined – or remembered? - it would in Fitz’ at the mention of her need to undress in a relatively intimate bedroom setting. “As you wish.”

Of course, he couldn’t actually open the door and close it again, so he just disappeared. In disbelief, and feeling bizarrely content with the strange turn of events, Simmons turned to the mirror to check herself – maybe because mirrors apparently didn’t work in dreams. But the mirror was working. And she was blushing too.


End file.
